Possession
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: [[ON HOLD]] Leroux based. After Erik's death and burial, Christine begins acting oddly, and events soon spiral into a pure nightmare that absolutely no one anticipated. Rated for mature content, scenes of horror and the like. Many thanks to all who R&R.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Erik lay in his coffin, staring upwards at the ceiling, waiting. He had already sent the things to Daroga; soon, Christine would be coming to him, to bury him, to put him to rest. But first, he'd have to die.

And so, he reflected on death, as he had so often in the past. He'd finally be able to achieve the peace he'd been longing for his whole, tortured life.

_You almost had her, you fool. You almost had her, but you let her go. And now the only time she'll see you again is when you're too dead to appreciate it._

He shook his head, trying to make the bitter thoughts leave, but to no avail. Rather, they just cumulated, more manifesting themselves by the second.

_How perfectly ironic, to die in a coffin…_

_You could have had her, but you let her run off with that stupid boy. Fool! Coward! You did this to yourself._

_The world did this to you; you almost had peace so many times, but the world wrenched it from you._

…_To die…_

_And what are you doing, just lying there, waiting for death to overtake you when it already has!_

…_To lie like the corpse you are._

Angered beyond belief, Erik sat up like a shot, tearing at his perfectly manicured evening clothes, sobbing and raging. He stood, flinging himself at the furniture that so neatly graced the room, seeking to maul, crush, destroy, anything to take his vengeance out on the world before he passed into silence.

_Stop that, you look like a toddler in a tantrum,_ said a voice from within, and he obeyed. He looked over to the other side of the dark room; there stood a tall, hooded figure, one he recognized immediately as the speaker from inside him.

He quaked with fear then, and his anger completely evaporated. "No…" he whispered, his mouth dry.

_Don't tell me you weren't expecting me_, boomed the voice in his mind, laughing coldly.

"No, please…I need more time."

_I thought you were through with living._

Erik nodded feverishly. "With living, yes, but I'm not ready to…yield to my part of our agreement."

_About to die and still the business-man_, remarked the voice. _Why not state it plainly? You're not ready to give me your soul._

He clutched at his chest. "No, I am not."

_And for what purpose would a corpse have need of a soul?_

Looking at the figure intently with his golden, glowing eyes, he whispered: "Christine."

_Very well. One month, Erik. But then, you're mine_, said the voice, and then the figure disappeared.

Erik felt violated, the vaults of his mind breeched they way they had been so easily. Taking a deep breath, he faced the coffin again.

He walked towards it slowly, a requiem mass sounding in his head; the same he'd played that night mere weeks ago…

Tears started up at the thought of that blasted night. _If I can't have her, no one can_, he thought resolutely, and he lay down, never to rise again.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

(excerpt from the journal of one Vicomte de Chagny)

_Journal,_

_Alas, the blasted day has arrived. Hardly three weeks have passed since the Opera disaster, and Christine has learned that the wretched monster is dead, God rest his soul—if he even has one. But I should not be writing this, nor even thinking it, for, if he truly did not possess a soul, I and Christine might not have been set free. Even as I write, she is moving about our bedroom, packing for the journey back to Paris. She refuses to let me go with her, maintains that she is able to care for herself, but I can see even now that she is frightened. I've told her repeatedly she should not go, but she does not listen to me, instead says that she has an obligation to fulfill to her "poor, unhappy Erik" and scolds me for trying to sway her otherwise. I watch her now, and she has stopped her fretful pacing and packing; she stands in the middle of the room, looking out the window at the landscape of our new home in Germany, twisting the damned ring on her finger, the one she got from that monster. She promises me that, once she leaves, I'll never have to see it again and that, once she returns, we can finally start our life together. I fervently pray that this is so._

* * *

"Oh, Raoul," sighed Christine, looking out the window and playing with her thick blonde hair, deep in thought. 

"What is it, Christine?" he asked, closing the book he'd been writing in with a snap, standing from where he'd been sitting at the small desk in the corner and approaching her.

"I wish I didn't have to go."

His immediate response was to say, "Then don't," but he bit his tongue, instead folding her into his arms. "You've told me so many times that you have an obligation to fulfill."

"Yes, but it's so unpleasant, Raoul."

"You've faced the unpleasant before."

"I know," she sighed.

They stood like this for some time, until the faint sound of hooves on cobblestones could be heard from the street. "That must be your carriage," said Raoul wearily, letting go of her.

Christine said nothing, instead picking up her small bag from off the floor next to her.

"Here, let me take that for you," said Raoul.

"Always the gentleman," she teased, but handed the bag over to him and left the room, Raoul following after her, much like an obedient puppy.

He escorted her to the street. "Return soon, my love," he said, handing the porter the bag and kissing Christine full on the lips.

She giggled, reaching out and stroking Raoul's mustache adoringly. "Of course, my love."

He kissed her again before helping her into the carriage.

"Goodbye, Raoul," she called, poking her beautiful blonde head out the window.

"Goodbye, Christine," he replied, watching as the carriage started off down the street, ignoring the persistent sinking feeling in his heart.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

(excerpt from the journal of the late Vicomtess de Chagny)

_Dear Diary,_

_It went much better than I originally expected. I feared that he'd sent the things to the Persian so that he could try and lure me back to him, but this was not so. I…I'm not sure whether or not to be mournful or happy. I suppose both would be in order, but my heart mandates that I choose only one. Oh, this is too much like that dreadful night; I was only allowed to choose one… Out of courtesy, no, out of love for my dear departed Angel—Erik will always be an angel in my sight, no matter what Raoul or anyone else might say—I shall choose to be mournful. Sometimes, I still wonder what it would have been like to…to stay with him. No doubt it would be dreadful, but he really was very kind to me, when I followed his instructions. And, this time, I did follow his instructions, to the letter: once I found him, I took off the ring he'd given me, placed it on his chest, and closed the lid of the coffin; I was crying, I hope he doesn't mind that some of my tears fell on his mask… Well, I then went to fetch the letter he said he would leave in the bureau drawer, placed it on top of the coffin… Oh, Diary, I took something of his, something to remember him by. I don't want to show Raoul, or anyone, and I don't even know if I should be even writing it down in here, for fear someone might find it, but I…I took a sheet of his Opera, Don Juan Triumphant, only a sheet…it's in the pocket of my coat even now, as I write._

* * *

Christine sat back against the carriage seat, sighing. She put the journal she'd been so diligently writing in aside and stuck her hand inside her coat pocket, pulling out a worn sheet of paper. 

She unfolded it, gently, as only a woman can, and looked intently at the scrawled red writing, the notes dancing across the page, given a life of their own. She could still hear the music reverberating inside of her mind, from that one evening he'd played some for her. Oh, the music…

When she'd reached the house by the lake, when she'd finally found the coffin in the sitting room, as promised, she half expected there to be no body; she was of the conviction that Erik, angel, demon, or man, had been made solely of music. In life, he'd eaten it, breathed it…surely in death, he would become it, joining one of his own creations, becoming the talent that, so wrongfully unwanted in life, would live forever? For, just as surely, he _would_ live forever, in her thoughts. He'd been so imprinted, so ingrained in her mind that it was almost as if he were living, breathing, singing, raging still, only inside of _her _flesh.

And yet, when she'd approached his coffin, quite literally his _deathbed_, there he was, laying still, masked face gazing up to the heavens which he adored, yet so deeply despised.

She closed her eyes in sorrow at the thought, intending to whisper a prayer for him under her breath—only, it didn't happen, for it suddenly grew very cold.

Puzzled, she reopened her eyes and looked around. Why had it grown so cold? Had the carriage stopped? She didn't know.

"Christine," called a voice, barely a whisper, hardly a sigh.

She sat stock still, terrified, clutching the sheet of music she'd taken in her pale hands; she knew that voice.

"Christine, won't you speak to me?"

She wanted to scream, but her breath refused to leave her throat.

"Won't you even look at me?"

Horrified, she felt her gaze inexorably, forcibly drawn to the paper.

It was blank, so very, frighteningly, disturbingly blank. All of the red ink was gone, leaving the white, naked expanse of the paper in her grasp. But wait…what was that…?

A blot, in the very center of the paper, a hideous red blot, growing wider and wider by the second, engulfing the paper in the scarlet bath, leaking onto Christine's lap.

"_Look at me!_"

She felt a force on the back of her head pushing her face violently into the pool of red.

She pulled her face up half a second later, shrieking in pure terror, clawing at her face, trying to be rid of the crimson horror.

It was blood.

-----

At that moment, the horse pulling the carriage began squealing in fright, kicking out in front of him, sending the pedestrians on the street and on the sidewalk running as fast as they could away from the crazed animal.

A few men ran forward to help the driver get the animal under control, a few more prying open the carriage to check on the passenger, only to step back, aghast.

The scene that met their eyes was that of a young woman, her blonde hair a mess, hands swiping angrily at her face, screaming.

"Get it off!! Please, someone, help me!! Angel, please!! Someone, help!! It's bleeding, it's bleeding, can't anyone see!! Help!"

Those conducting the inspection of the carriage afterwards noted in a post-assessment report that, while they identified both Christine's travel bag and journal, they found no trace of the alleged sheet music.


End file.
